The Better Men
by EiriTheBear
Summary: Charles believes every human is like Moira, and Erik believes everyone's like Shaw. Two men from two extremes of living. Will they ever get into a compromise? Or will they drift apart into two separate futures? The two come to terms with what they really feel. AU SLASH, with some Halex and possibly Azazaven.
1. Prologue

**Note: Not strictly following the First Class script, but there we go anyway. Sorry for starting this while writing another story-it's that I've fallen in love with the idea of Cherik. So obviously, this will be slash.**

**Summary: Charles believes every human is like Moira, and Erik believes everyone's like Shaw. Two men from two extremes of living. Will they ever get into a compromise? Or will they drift apart into two separate futures? AU SLASH, with some Halex and possibly Azazaven.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the X-Men franchise or the characters. I just like playing with them a bit. Trying this out for size.**

**Prologue: The Blue Depths**

Charles leaped.

He was mid-air for only a few seconds—seconds less than he had estimated since he had leapt not quite far from the ship, and not as high as he thought he'd make, due to his thick, restrictive clothing—and he had a moment to be able to think _I had not thought this through _before plunging into the cold seawater, not quite headfirst as well, since, as he had thought, he had not mulled over the predicament enough.

But anyway, he was already in the water, half-swimming, half-flailing towards the general direction of the mind that he had heard. A mind so piercing that Charles had picked it up without his conscious effort. _Astounding._

_Stop the submarine. Jam the propellers. Rupture the ballasts. Why isn't anything _working?

Charles didn't think he had ever heard a more single-track mind in his life than this one here. A mind that didn't flinch automatically with his body, when Charles had wrapped his arms around the person's shoulders.

Dying. Charles felt that the strain of the man using his ability, compounded by the lack of air, was rapidly killing the man's brain cells. Setting aside the precursory skim he does with strangers' minds—the one he usually executes as a non-invasive precaution—he plunged right into the tumultuous mind, chaotic, but so very streamlined.

_A very controlled chaos, _Charles thought in appall.

_:Enough! You have to let go,: _Charles projected with his ability. At last the man regarded him—with still half his mind on trying to obliterate the submarine—and his thoughts churned in panic. Charles felt the twin sensations of both their minds processing the surging waters, pushed by the submarine's struggling propellers.

_:Who are you? How are you doing that?: _were his first lines of thought. Granted, he didn't know if he had imagined the voice, but he was pretty sure he had heard it—or rather, felt it ring in his mind, clear as a bell.

The response startled him, and his attention on the nuclear submarine decreased to a fourth.

_:I know what this means to you, but you're going to drown. Save yourself. Try again another time,: _was the answer. The seawater was dark, and the only indication that the man would not relent in getting him to the surface was his firm, unyielding grip around his shoulders, which, at the moment, he didn't think he could shrug off simply because he was getting really weak, really quickly.

_:Trust me, Erik, please. Calm your mind.:_

A name he hadn't heard said in another person's voice. It acted as an alarm that went through his head, and, as if a switch had been turned off in his mind, his powers shut off, and the submarine lurched forward, disappearing into the watery depths of the Florida coast.

They resurfaced, and after an instinctual gasp of air, Erik didn't waste a beat and turned to Charles, who was sputtering quite violently.

"You were in my head! How did you do that?" he repeated, in a raspy, strained voice half-laden with an accent indistinguishable to Charles at the moment. Charles also detected a hint of anger, presumably because his target had gotten away.

After a few gasps to regulate his breathing, Charles fixed his eyes on the man.

"My name is Charles Xavier, and I am like you," he said, breathing lungfuls of air open-mouthed, while treading the slightly turbulent waters. Charles chose his words carefully, and by the slight widening of the other man's eyes, and the small glint in them, Charles thought he had chosen them correctly.

_Or incorrectly, depending on what that glint implies._

"Like me?" Erik asked, dubious. The expression turned from a momentary surge of surprise to that of caution. Charles watched the play of the other man's face with a slight frown. _He is a very suspecting man._

_"_I thought I was alone," Erik said between gasps of air.

"Your ability, it's not uncommon. I mean, it is, but there are others like you with skills like that," Charles explained, in a rather hasty generalization that he hoped would get his point across. "You're not alone, Erik."

At the still-wary expression on the foreigner's face, he pushed past his skimming, and delved into Erik's mind, without agitating any of the surface memories.  
_  
:I can do this. I am a telepath, meaning I could read minds and project thoughts. You have your tricks, I have mine,: _The look on Erik's face would have been comical had the circumstances been less dire, or had they not been having the conversation while treading in the deep sea.

"We should really get off this water—it's giving me quite a chill," Charles remarked in a chipper tone, and Erik gave him a look akin to that of a circus spectator.

"Thank you for seeing reason, Erik," Charles said gently but firmly, and Erik, for the second time in his life, felt absolutely defenseless.

**x**

Erik found it utterly bizarre that the younger man thanked him for letting him save Erik's life. Never mind that he should be returning the gesture, but he was at a loss for words, sitting in a bunk inside the cabin that he and Charles Xavier shared. No one with half a mind would consider asking permission to save someone's life. Although, Erik did respect that gesture, to some extent. He did not, after all, have his well-being at the top of his list of priorities.

Charles, for the most part, had whined about his wet clothing the minute he got off the water, and had received a positively vicious but enlightening reprimand from a woman named Raven. The way Charles brushed off her scolding and the manner of which Raven shifted from annoyance to concern only solidified their relationship in Erik's eyes. As introductions were made, though, Erik, who had initially presumed them to be lovers, found to his surprise that they were brother and sister.

_They look nothing alike, _he had thought, immediately glancing at Charles after his thoughts ran, wondering in suspicion if the younger man had picked it up. Charles, for the most part, looked thoroughly busy bearing the brunt of the scolds he was getting, not only from Raven but also from a woman named Moira McTaggert, a CIA agent.

He had half a mind to shove a floating shard of steel from the sea through her, and to jump off the ship and swim away, where the US government couldn't track him, but Charles, to his misfortune, had heard that instead, and shook his head calmly.

_:That would only cause trouble, my friend,: _Charles had projected. Erik scowled at him.

_:I said I had half a mind. And stop rifling through my thoughts without permission!:_

_:I'm sorry. Truly, I am. It's just that, your thoughts, oddly enough, are even harder to block than the usual.:_

Erik didn't know what to believe. Instead, he remained silent, and brooded over his strange new predicament.

Shaw had escaped. It was a thought that he frankly wanted to kill a few people for. Years of planning, turned into a stinking pile of dung. And he had been punched off a yacht by a telepathic diamond woman to boot. His pride could not have been more ruptured, but he still had some of it left, and that remaining sliver roiled in him, making him wonder if going back to a CIA headquarters with these people was the smart thing to do.

These people had a lead. If they didn't, they wouldn't be able to locate Shaw in the first place. If they had any other inside information about the doctor that Erik knew nothing about, then it was the opportunity for Erik to regroup and formulate a new set of plans—a more streamlined, fool-proof plan that didn't involve facing the man head-on, and getting punched off a yacht.

Charles turned to him, after fussing for a good half-hour over his state of well-being and dress. Erik wanted to shake his head at how vainglorious the man was, but once again chose not to say or do anything.

It took a second for Erik to realize that Charles was not staring at him directly, but rather at the silver coin twirling on his palm.

"Your ability is truly remarkable," Charles said in awe, sitting on his bunk and regarding the coin with intent.

Erik wanted to say that he found the same thing true for Charles's powers, but said nothing, betraying none of his emotions through his stoic face.

When Charles said nothing after a while, eyes fixated at the piece of silver that kept twirling restlessly in Erik's palm, Erik flattened it against his hand and glared at him.

"Don't read my mind," Erik commanded assertively. His voice hinted at what could happen should his mind be invaded.

Charles reeled back in bewilderment, before shaking his head and looking at Erik's eyes intently.

"I will put an extra effort not to, my friend," he said earnestly.

There it was again, those words. _My friend. _It was too trusting a phrase that it grated on Erik's nerves. What right did Charles have to call him his friend? What interaction happened between them that the other man had warrant to assume that calling him as such was alright with Erik?

Stiffly, Erik pocketed his coin and turned away from Charles, lying down on his bunk bed and resisting the urge to curl into himself.

Erik focused on the metal all around him, and tried to flush the thought of Charles Xavier possibly swimming in his brain at the moment, finding out all of his secrets, figuring him out with a few choice memories.

The two things that stopped him from killing Charles Xavier that night was the debt he owed the man for saving his life, and the memory of his starkly blue eyes, glowing with supposed honesty.

_I will put an extra effort not to, my friend._

Erik, for the life of him, did not believe a word Charles said.

**v**


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: The Beach**

"Go ahead, Charles, tell me I'm wrong." _Please._

It was Erik's turn to take note of the expressions flitting through Charles mind. Obstinacy; he didn't want to give Erik the satisfaction of him obeying, and running his powers all over the minds of the soldiers on the ships—followed by reluctant resignation; his thoughts would be surging from mind to mind, to find only a single, unified thought coursing through all the humans' minds: eliminate the monsters—followed by devastation; the realization hitting far harder than he would have ever thought, that Erik was right.

_So optimistic, Charles. So romantic, assuming that these humans would ask first and fire later._

Erik didn't want to be right, but he was, and he felt sick of the way his face contorted into a smirk that lorded itself over Charles' devastated expression. _I don't like seeing you like that—not at all. What am I doing, making you look like that?_

The missiles fired.

Erik was taken in, for one moment, by how oddly beautiful the tails of smoke looked as they danced around each other, trailing upwards in an arch, with the missiles set towards the very ground they were standing on. Beside him, he sensed Charles step back, in a gesture that projected the very betrayal he felt. Erik wanted to go to him, to say _I told you so_, but more importantly, to assure him that he was there, just as Charles was there for him.

The missiles ran their course, and coalesced into an intimidating swarm, that is, until Erik stopped them in mid-air, before they made any impact. For all their long, tubular forms, they looked more like wild animals, waiting for the right time to pounce. The mutants stood paralyzed on the beach, like prey.

His control was so very _pure _now. Between rage and serenity. The metal hummed in his thoughts, and he could feel them absolutely bending to his will, like a pack of obedient dogs. Erik wanted to smile, to send a fond little quirk of the lips towards the person who made it possible, but he found himself resisting the urge, for that very man was next to him, glaring daggers at him, _opposing _him.

_Charles … _he thought, before realizing that he was wearing Shaw's helmet, still. The thought _hurt, _that Charles wasn't seeing eye to eye with him, when through the whole experience, the both of them thought that their minds melded perfectly, that they were two sides of the same coin.

_His friend. _Erik understood that now. Charles knew who he was, found out nearly everything about him when Erik gave him permission to look into his mind that day—when he had managed to turn a titanic satellite dish. Charles did not condemn him, but judged his actions instead. What Erik saw in him as a flaw—the way he saw the absolute best in people—had been his saving grace in Charles' eyes.

"Erik," Charles said warningly, as if he could do anything to Erik at this point. "You said so yourself—we are the better men. It's time you proved that to everyone here, to them, who had condemned us under circumstantial ignorance. They're good, honest men, Erik, only following orders."

_Words, Charles. Your last weapon, _Erik thought, shaking his head condescendingly.

"I've been at the hands of men only following orders, Charles. Surely you of all people know that," he muttered. He reveled in the satisfaction he felt when Charles' expression crumpled into regret coupled sympathy.

He flicked his wrists. The missiles turned and fired back along the arch that they came.

And Charles stood there, and for one moment of exhilaration Erik thought he had won him over…

But then a blunt force hit his helmet and made it clang, and he lost a bit of his concentration as a few missiles plummeted to the sea.

The CIA agent. Pistol out in front of her, she continued firing bullets, as if totally unaware of the fact that Erik _controls _metallic objects. She approached, a look of grave determination on her face, and Erik deflected the bullets in annoyance, and the missiles would have hit home and destroyed the two opposing fleets alike, had Alex not stepped onto the edge of the shore and released his power.

Dozens of red-hot energy hoops unfurled from Alex' body and fired from the beach, and for one hysterical moment Alex was scared that he would _miss _without Hank's and the professor's adapter,and hit one or some of the ships instead.

But they didn't, and they all watched in a fascinated sort of awe as missile after missile exploded in the air, its ashes raining down on the sea.

"I—I did it," Alex said in disbelief. Behind him was Hank, a stunned expression on his face.

"You did it," Hank repeated, his blue face splitting into an almost feral, yet happy sort of grin.

And Erik, to his utter irritation, growled, diverting one more bullet with his ability—the last, he noted as an afterthought, in the pistol's chamber—and he heard a piercing cry to his side—

And as he turned, his eyebrows shot to his hairline as he saw Charles falling to the sand, clutching at his back, his face contorted in unimaginable pain. Erik could _feel _where the stray bullet hit, pierced-but did not quite penetrate-Hank's suit, and broke skin.

Erik, for the life of him, couldn't remember another time in his life when he felt so utterly hopeless and scared for someone, until he saw Charles lying there, breathing harshly.

Erik was by his side in moments. His stomach lurched at the prone form of the once proud Charles Xavier.

"Back off!" he cried, as the other mutants shuffled to be near them. "Charles—I'm so sorry, I—"

Erik held Charles' form over with a hopeless sort of expression and was once again at a loss for words. Charles was shot in the back. He could be dying this very moment.

Erik, in a fit of panic, used his ability to pull out the bullet, eliciting another pained moan from Charles, who had tear tracks coming from his eyes. Erik cringed, and then desperately groped in his mind for someone to blame. He felt a shift of metal as the pistol fell to the ground, and his eyes snapped towards McTaggert. In a fit of madness he threw his arm up and drew Moira's metallic necklace up to choke her.

"You did this!" Erik yelled in rage, glaring with baleful eyes at the CIA agent, Moira, who looked—from her horrified expression—as if she believed it, while struggling against the chain.

"N-No," Charles muttered below him, and Erik's attention snapped to him immediately, to his blue eyes—those sharp, deep, truthful _blue _eyes—and held Charles for a short while, deigning him to continue. Moira fell to the ground, coughing and sputtering.

"She didn't do this, Erik. You-you didn't do this either," Charles groaned in pain once again and Erik had to physically restrain himself from crying out along with him.

"No, Charles, please, what's happening?" Erik said, eyebrows furrowed into a complete lack of understanding. He knew Charles was in pain—maybe even on the brink of dying—but why wasn't he comprehending things?

"We need to get him out of here, Erik! Please!" Raven's distressed voice pierced through his thoughts. Erik looked lost, for a moment, as he glanced at her, before looking back down at Charles and hanging on to his very being—the look of weariness on his face, the sand on his hair, the way his eyes just _exuded _forgiveness despite his voice telling Erik that it wasn't his fault …

He knew why, now—because he couldn't. He couldn't think of Charles dying. Dying meant non-existence, and for one thing, Erik couldn't fathom the idea of Charles not existing in this world, or any other godforsaken, alternate world with a Charles and an Erik in it. The idea was hauntingly terrifying. Erik didn't think he could live through it.

Couldn't live through it. It was such a selfish thought that Erik almost wanted to laugh, and wanted to take the helmet off just so Charles could laugh along with him. Here was Charles, bleeding from a possibly fatal wound in the middle of a beach probably far from any medical center or the like which could save him—and Erik was thinking about himself, just as Charles was always, _always _thinking about Erik.

If he could find any word in the dictionary which could describe him at the moment, it was selfish.

"You," he pointed to the red being that Charles had told him was named Azazel. The man's tail flicked, and his gaze settled on him with cool regard.

"Teleport us to safe place where Charles could recuperate, or I swear I'll pull out every trace of iron from your unusual blood and kill you," he threatened him.

The devilish man's eyes widened, and then nodded. Through a bit of shuffling around, everyone made contact, and in a rushed puff of smoke, they were gone, leaving Moira behind, under Erik's strict orders.

**v**

**Note: TADA! End of chapter one! What do you think? Was it too rushed? Too dramatic? Too sappy? Tell me! Review! This is obviously gonna be AU after this, and you're going to have to find out what happens next. Will Charles and Erik continue to oppose each other? Will they start an anti-human group together or start the school just as Charles had planned? REVIEW!**


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Xavier Mansion**

Alex walked through the next hall, his hands stubbornly shoved in his pockets, a stormy expression fixed on his face. He was making that trip again; the one he couldn't help but make each day. Down the three halls from the main wing, descending the stairs to the first basement, where Hank's laboratory was.

He peeked inside, and was silently grateful that no one was there, save for the Professor.

He ducked in, and made his way towards a bedside chair, sitting down. His eyes darted from one apparatus to the next, all hooked or attached to Charles in some way or another. His blood ran cold. He hated the things with a passion. They clinked and beeped steadily, yet for all their constant performance they didn't assure the Professor's well-being.

He then glanced at the prone, unconscious form of Charles Xavier. Alex swallowed.

He remembered, back then, why he voluntarily had himself incarcerated. He was so scared of his immense power—an ability that, when coupled with his unstable nature and personality, often brought out the worst in him. He had seen a boy his age turn to smelted chunks of flesh because of him.

Never again, he had vowed. Confinement had been the only solution he could find, and he had approached the most powerful sector when it came to defense at the time—the US Army.

He had spent two years of his teenage life in a high security prison, a time he didn't know how he endured through. It had been worse in the prison—the taunts, the constant way he had to be on his guard, the level of control that he forced himself to practice. Yet through all those times, the confinement, the lack of contact with others and the loneliness he felt nearly overwhelmed him, and he hadn't progressed at all with his control.

Charles and Erik had been his saving grace.

He had all but given up, and had been close to breaking point, seriously considering using his powers and breaking out of the prison—possibly hurting people in the process—when he had received word from the warden that two CIA coops wanted to interview him.

It had happened in an interrogation room, a cold, small room with an overhead lamp, three chairs and a steel table. He had been led in without any restraints—a sort of trust the guards placed on him because he had never really been a troublemaker—and had been asked to wait.

He glanced up as the men entered; one of them wore a single-breasted jacket of fine quality, matching trousers, and a kind enough smile, the other a simpler jacket of grey, a turtleneck, and an expression so carefully contrived that Alex wondered if he was about to burst into some kind of rage soon.

"Good afternoon," said the kinder-looking one, "I'm assuming that you're Alex Summers, since the guards were courteous enough to lead us here at our behest."

Alex nodded, his eyes warily fixed on them. "What's it to you?"

They took their seats, and the whole time Alex kept his face as stoic as possible. Everything else, however, projected otherwise—his shoulders were hunched defensively, the fingers on his right hand tapping on the steel table restlessly.

"My name is Charles Xavier. This is my—ah—associate, Erik Lensherr," the man glanced briefly at the other next to him, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "We've been made aware of your … abilities, as it were."

"You mean my power," Alex said darkly. "You want to recruit me, don't you? The warden said you were from the CIA."

Another glance was exchanged between the two men. Charles shook his head.

"We want to help you," Charles said in a soothing tone. "We know why you're here. No criminal record, underage, even—you want to be as far away from people as possible. Tell me, how did you manage to convince the warden that you belong here?"

Alex's façade broke, and he stared at both of the men with wide eyes. How had they known?

"You didn't show him what your capable of, did you?" Charles asked, in a light enough tone that Alex found hard to believe. No one was supposed to talk of his powers like that, like it was some weird yet harmless defect that caused no trouble.

Alex shook his head rapidly. "Of course not! I—"he stopped, wondering if he should tell them. If he should trust them.

"I could have killed someone again."

"Alex," someone said from behind him, and he was jostled out of his stupor so suddenly that he jumped. He relaxed a tiny bit, however, when he found Hank in the laboratory, wearing a white lab coat that still looked unusual on his blue fur.

"Hank," Alex said, steadying himself. "I don't think I'll ever get used to you."

Alex knew it had been the wrong thing to say, when Hank recoiled and turned away from him, to tidy up one of the desks containing some papers.

"I don't think I will, either," muttered the blue mutant over his shoulder.

"Sorry," Alex said, and Hank knew he meant it—Alex hardly ever apologized, especially when to came to Hank.

"It's nothing. Just another problem to solve," Hank said, filing the last of the papers into a manila and heading over to Charles' bedside.

"How is he?" Alex asked, almost afraid of an answer.

"He's stable, now," Hank answered. "Recuperating. We were lucky Riptide has a medical degree. Azazel took care of the supplies easily and the operation was more or less a success."

"Riptide controlled inflammation and restrained his spine. Once he comes to, he'll have a lot to go through. There's no known cure for Anterior Cord Syndrome, that is, if he doesn't respond to temperature or other sensations, he might be paralyzed permanently," Hank said, as clinically as he could. Alex didn't know how he got through saying that without balking. Alex would have broken down half-way, and maybe punched a hole through a wall, or let his power loose.

His fists were clenched, and his eyebrows were scrunched in frustration. "It's unfair."

"It is," Hank said, nodding sadly. "Charles surely doesn't deserve any of this."

"It's his fault," Alex muttered lowly. Hank didn't have to ask which 'his' Alex was referring to. "If he wasn't so stupid—"

"Alex," Hank said calmingly, "we can't do anything about it. You know what Charles said. It was no one's fault but Fate's. Erik … even though he didn't' voice it out, he always gave Erik a chance."

"Yeah, well Charles was always naïve when it came to assessing people," Alex said, sighing as he gave Charles another look.

"We're all worried, Alex. The best we could do is wait," Hank said, more to reassure himself than the other teen. Alex shrugged his shoulders in answer, not ready to admit that he was as worried as everyone else.

"And you, Hank?" Alex asked, out of some strange impulse.

"What about me?"

"How are you doing?" Alex asked, throat tightening. What was he doing? Alex looked away as Hank stared at him incredulously for more than a second. The awkwardness in the room plummeted from tolerable to stifling.

"I—I'm fine, Alex. No need to worry," Hank answered, voice steadying after a while.

Alex scoffed, jumping out of his seat and walking towards the door. "Hmm. Wasn't worried."

**x**

Raven never went down to the laboratory. Instead she spent the time wandering through each and every room in the Xavier Mansion, wondering what the hell she was doing there still. She had spent a few nights crying after the altercation, and a few more attempting to run away, but she was always drawn back to the mansion and Charles, just as she was always, back in the past when she made such attempts.

There was no helping it. Most of her life was spent as part of the Xaviers' family, and like it or not, Charles had become her best friend, and as they keep telling other people, her brother.

The afternoon two weeks after Shaw's death found Raven in one of the parlors reserved for serving inebriants. She wasn't prone to getting drunk like most people, but she could pretend.

At her eighth martini glass, a knock came from the open door.

"Might I join you?" a husky voice intoned. Raven looked over her shoulder to see that it was the devilish looking mutant, Azazel.

"Knock yourself out," Raven said sullenly, downing a martini and pouring herself some more almost immediately. Azazel went over to the bar and sat on a stool next to her, raising a sharp eyebrow at her.

"You seem to be doing that to yourself quite spectacularly," Azazel pointed out.

"Care to bet?" Raven challenged him. "Your own sobriety, perhaps?"

"I'm incapable of succumbing to alcohol," Azazel confessed, pouring himself a small glass of something stronger. Vodka.

"So am I," Raven shot back, downing the glass again. Her ninth. She went for her tenth without losing a beat.

"And yet your eyes seem half-lidded, you look drowsy, your eye color flickers, and you look even more radiant than usual," Azazel replied steadily. He kept his eyes on Raven as he drank, never taking them away from her until he had downed the last drop.

"Oh, put a sock in it," Raven said, pausing. "And if that's your way of picking me up, then you're sadly underprepared."

"I could make more of an effort," the teleporter suggested, looking at his empty glass before refilling it.

"You could. Might be you'll learn some when I shoot you down," Raven said. Surprisingly enough, she hadn't had this much of a conversation with anyone over the weeks, except for Charles of course. Hank had become too busy with keeping the mansion well-kept with Sean, and with making sure his projects are cared for, that somehow he didn't really provide that telltale spark that Raven always seemed to demand from others, the one that signaled they were worth her time.

"Might be," Azazel muttered, smirking into glass number two.

They drank through the afternoon, thoughts about the tumultuous state of the mansion at the back of their minds for the time-being.

**v**

**Note: Just an introduction to the two other pairings in this fanfic. Halex and Azazaven. Y'see, Alex and Hank would primarily start with severe denial of their care for each other at first, while Raven and Azazel will be full-on flirtatious about it. Review!**


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: The Laboratory**

Erik finally found it within himself to go down those stairs to the first basement and see Charles. For too long he had swam in overwhelming guilt, distracting himself by going to New York and extricating himself from the rancor of the mansion. The too-familiar interactions that used to give him a sense of belonging was a loud ringing ball of confusion now, with the children uncertain as to how to approach him, or anyone from Shaw's team for the matter.

He brought them here, and he left them to their own devices, without knowing the possible consequences. When he came back to the mansion, he was hit with an unexpected surge of relief—that Riptide had not summoned a vortex blasting one of the parlors off the building, or Alex had not lost control of his powers and seared holes through the roof. Hank must have been doing a commendable job of keeping everyone from killing each other.

He would deal with them later—there were more pressing matters after all.

The hall turned right and Erik followed through it, never breaking stride. That is, until he reached the lab, and he stopped just short of anyone being able to see him through the open doors, his eyes widening a fraction.

_No, _Erik thought, his head shaking in bleak realization along with his thoughts. _Please, no. _The sound was clear, distinct, telling. It couldn't have been anything else. If it had been someone else but Charles, everyone would have been down here. No, Charles was alive. Charles was awake. Erik's ribs ached, his heart threatening to burst.

_Crying._

It was a stubbornly held-back series of sniffles, so not unlike something Charles would do. And why hadn't he caught his bearings and straightened himself? Charles would never be caught dead at a low point, without fixing himself somewhat.

The cold, pointed side of the helmet that brushed Erik's cheek just as he tried to peek inside answered it for him. _Right, I am wearing this thing. _Erik got a good look at the other man—lying prone on the bed, his upper body elevated by a number of pillows—Charles had one arm slung over his eyes to cover them, as the small, trembling gasps escaped from his slightly open mouth. Erik was most simply devoured by a ravenous guilt, and an urge to do something, _anything, _to stop the gut-wrenching sound.

He decided to take the helmet off, and lay it all out there. The presence of Erik's mind so suddenly close in proximity to Charles' made the professor freeze mid-gasp, dropping his arm and searching for the person who had intruded.

"_Erik," _Charles breathed, "you're back." Charles made quite a show of wiping his eyes with hands and pyjama sleeves, looking for all the world like a very young boy.

"Charles," Erik responded, walking slowly, tentatively towards Charles' gurney. Charles shouldn't be cooped up like this, surrounded by sterile lab equipment and daunting technology. He belonged in a lecture room, or a podium, or a parlor with tea and chess, for crying out loud. Not like this, not like an invalid whose hope had been torn from him. Not crying. Never crying. Erik didn't think he would ever get the image of a broken Charles Xavier off his mind, ever, unless Charles himself tore it from him.

"I feel very silly now, for not putting into consideration Shaw's helmet—or, is it yours, now, my friend?" Charles half-exclaimed, half-asked. Erik could only nod.

"How?" Erik asked, hollowly.

Charles tilted his head in confusion for a moment, wondering what that very vague question intoned. He never really rubbed away his tear tracks, and the way his crystalline blue eyes caught the light along with the tracks tore Erik asunder.

"I survived? Hank told me that Janos was a very accomplished surgeon, and fixed me right up," Charles said, his voice cheerful as ever. At Erik's lost expression, Charles supplied, "Riptide," for him.

_No. _"No, how—how could you still call me that?"

"I'm sorry?" Charles said, and it took him a second, going back to what he had said, to figure out what Erik had meant.

"You mean—oh, _Erik,_" Charles said suddenly, his voice descending to a gentle whisper. "Erik, you are still very much a friend of mine—no matter what circumstance dictates."

Erik reeled back and almost wanted to run away, a stupid sort of heat threatening to prickle where his eyes were. He kept shaking his head.

"I won't pretend to know why you're treating me as such, Charles, not when—not when I've done _this _to you," Erik said, gesturing hopelessly at Charles' legs. What was indicative of the consequence that arose from Charles' being shot in the back was in the room with them, sidled against Charles' bed—a rather ornate, silver-crafted wheelchair.

The subdued, silver-flecked teal of Erik's eyes were miserable. Charles placed his hands on his lap, feeling sad.

"I'm so very sorry, Erik."

"_Sorry?" _Erik snapped, and for a hair's moment the metal in the room buzzed in anticipation, but Erik held himself in check just in time. One of the machines hooked to Charles could very well be supporting his very life at the moment, and causing things to vibrate might not be productive. Charles had flinched at the sudden tone of his friend, and looked away from the man.

"Yes," Charles just said. "Please don't take the blame upon yourself. We were in over our heads, Erik, every one of us, thinking that we will leave the very frontiers of a starting nuclear war unscathed. It was so very optimistic … So very—me, I guess," he smiled fondly, "if what you and the children always think about me is to be accounted for. I guess too much time spent with me in the mansion has rubbed off the positivity on you lot."

Erik was floored. He prided himself—like every other prisoner of war—as a very resilient, hard-honed man for surviving the camps at his age back then, when he resorted towards making survival an absolute priority, no matter what happened. To see Charles approaching this—this _debilitation _in such an unflinchingly hopeful attitude was incomprehensible to him.

_He just might have very well _survived _with me, had we been in the camps together._

It was a different sort of resilience, so unlike his own, one that thrived with effortless, unsinkable hope.

"I don't," Erik started, shaking his head in incredulity. _I don't know what to do with you, Charles Xavier. _He heaved a heavy sigh and tried not to feel so guilty in Charles' presence, and took a seat next to the young invalid.

"How are you feeling?" Erik finally asked, fixing his attention towards Charles and Charles only.

"I'm faring well," Charles sighed. "I'll be stuck in a wheelchair for the time-being. It's uncomfortable, but it's better than dragging my feet around. Imagine me trying to grapple my way up the stairs in this mansion," he joked.

Erik could tell by the way Charles hesitated, and the way multiple expressions tried to battle for dominance in his face that he was really dampening the severity of his case.

Erik nodded slowly, his face returning to its usual cool stoicism. Charles cheerlessly noted how there was a hint of resignation and moroseness in that expression, now.

"Erik, this isn't permanent, no matter how brutally honest Hank and Janos put it," Charles muttered. "I'll work through this, someday."

Erik's eyes darted to meet Charles' own, and they held each other in regard for a moment. Erik nodded—a firm jerk of the head that told of serious determination.

"You will," Erik asserted. "I know you will, Charles."

**x**

"So, have you talked to Erik?" Sean asked. He and Hank were in the kitchen, preparing food for eight. Angel, as it turned out, had had enough of mutant life, and had returned to her hometown, condemning all of them to hell for putting her through it all, especially the CIA, who recruited her into their stupid mutant division, and Alex, for singeing off part of her wing and making her unable to fly for a while.

"As much as I could have managed," Hank said, pausing. "Which is, to say, not much," he admitted.

"But did you get anything?" Sean questioned, looking up from the onions he was chopping and fixing an insistent gaze on the furry mutant. Hank shrugged at him, and resumed searing some steaks.

"I think so. The presence of Azazel and Riptide bothers me, still, but Erik—along with Raven—"he seemed a bit bitter at having to say her name, "—assured me both that they would not be causing any trouble. They're just as lost as we are, Erik says. With no real direction in life but what Fate deals them."

They were silent for a while, contemplating on the new development. They were preparing a basic meal, one with potatoes, onions and carrots, and steaks and gravy.

"What's going to happen to us, then?" Sean asked, quietly enough that Hank almost stopped himself from answering what seemed to be a rhetorical question.

"Charles wishes to continue on with making this a school, but he still isn't sure what Erik wants," Hank said as quietly. Another steak seared beautifully, and he was already on to the next.

"I say we confront him," a voice from the door adjoining the hall said. The two teens turned to look, finding Alex leaning against the countertop, his white shirt soiled with some grease. Alex had taken it upon himself to maintain any of the mansion cars, just in case they needed them.

"I agree," Sean said, looking at Hank hopefully.

"As long as it doesn't involve violence, I think that we should, too," Hank said finally, after holding Sean's gaze. "Though we can't overstep our boundaries. This school idea's always been Charles' and Erik's. And the both of them are in very sensitive positions at the moment, what with Charles being incapacitated and Erik—well, Erik causing it, indirectly."

"Whatever. We'll sock him in the face if he decides to run off on us," Alex said offhandedly, grabbing a glass from a cupboard and filling it with drinking water, just after washing his hands clean of grease.

"I'll scream him to death," Sean said simply, smilingly.

Hank began to feel hopeful. Maybe things were not as hard as they seem they would be, now.

**v**

**Note: Chapta 3 oveerrrr. Whatcha think? Review on this why don'tcha? I'm beginning to love how this is turning out. Mind you I was watching First Class while typing this, and was very much filled with Cherik feels in the beach scene, where Erik has Charles in his arms. 'I want you by my side' GAH isn't that just the icing on the fandom cake?**


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: The Courtyard**

They turned off the television, plunging the room into a deep silence. Charles could pick up more or less the same thoughts from everyone, and he found his own resonating with them. Nuclear war was prevented. That in itself was a relief that could have overpowered the sheer amount of uncertainty and fear everyone was feeling, brought about by a declaration of a different war—a war against the mutants. But it didn't. The news sank in, and everyone was left with a terrible feeling of sickness.

"They can't!" Alex exclaimed, making everyone jump at the sudden outburst. "We saved them on that beach! There were thousands of soldiers out there who saw that!"

"They belong to the government, Alex," Erik said evenly. Despite the ridiculous helmet he wore, Charles could read the mixture of emotions coming off of him—self-righteousness, fierce protectiveness, and on top of that, glazing over into a firm mask of resolve, cold rage. "Any word regarding what took place in that part of the Atlantic would be heavily classified."

Charles sighed inwardly. Despite the progress he and Erik had made with controlling his powers, Erik still tended to revert back to his vindictive, ruthless persona, when his powers weren't in demand.

Alex fixed him with a mildly uncertain gaze. Hank shifted in his seat, his eyes flickering towards Alex, and Azazel stepped away from the window he was facing, leaning on the couch and spreading his hands on the upholstery. Hank and Raven, who were sitting on the couch, turned to him and shifted slightly.

"What then, Xavier? A declaration like that means this scheme of yours to turn this mansion into a school would be illegal," Azazel said. It was stated simply, with no ill-intent. He was really just pointing out things as they were. Yet he was met with another ringing silence, and Charles had to watch as Sean's, Hank's and Alex' faces fell.

"It's—I thought Moira would serve as a mediator. She should have explained circumstances to the CIA," Charles said numbly.

"She should have," Erik replied. "But tell me—when Miss McTaggert radioed in, declaring our non-hostility to the US and Russian Navy, and when they fired fifty heads at our direction despite that—where do you see there their inclination towards negotiating?"

Charles was struck silent. Raven and the others traded glances at the sheer tension of the two mens' locked gazes.

"Identification. That's where it starts, Charles. Never again," Erik said, and Charles was brought back to that day, in front of the Lincoln Monument. "We should have never trusted anything to them."

He took off his helmet, and invited Charles into his psyche.

_:Charles, we need not oppose each other. What you want, and what I want, they never really differ in the long run,: _Erik reasoned, his eyes still fixed on Charles.

_:What difference does your means have with nuclear war? You said peace was never an option,: _Charles said, pressing at Erik.

_:I have a new purpose,: _Erik thought. _:Shaw is dead. You helped me see to that.:_

_:It was either you or him,: _Charles admitted. At the time, it really was. Shaw was a stranger—but no less than human. But Erik—he could have easily exploded to bits in Shaw's grasp, and he couldn't count on Erik being able to handle him on his own. He was just as guilty as Erik was in that respect. His hands were bloodied by Shaw's murder. Erik's was the sword, but Charles' was the shackles.

And like it or not, he couldn't stand the thought of choosing Shaw then, simply becuase choosing one meant foregoing the other.

"Would you like to let us in on your little psychic tryst?" Raven said over their quarreling thoughts, knocking them off their heated gaze. The two of them glanced at Raven simultaneously, and then went their separate directions, Erik to the courtyard, Charles to a study on the first floor.

The others, divided in their conflicted pursuits, left the parlor. Hank was headed for the laboratory, muttering about projects such as metal braces for Charles and new enhancement suits—and in that state he always wanted to be left alone—while Sean and Alex followed Erik outside. That left Azazel, who wanted a word with Janos, and Raven, who badly needed to talk with Charles.

**x**

"Erik," Sean called, and they reached that spot where Erik had a clear view of the satellite dish, the one where Charles unlocked his power. It seemed so long ago. Back then, there wasn't an immediate threat to their lives, and Charles could dance if he wanted to.

Alex fell behind the younger mutant, unsure of how to approach the situation without including his temper or his penchant for discharging energy. Alex watched Sean, striding carefully but confidently on the pebbled pathway.

"Sean," Erik greeted him. "Nice day for a fly." His aura was calm enough, but all three of them could tell Erik was just trying to be good-natured—no one but the professor really got past Erik's distant, unintentionally cold nature.

"Maybe you could push me off of somewhere—that would encourage me to enjoy it," Sean replied, rolling his eyes. The memory was clear, and he glanced at the satellite dish, recalling how he had plummeted near its steel surface, death awaiting him had he not opened his mouth then and screamed his lungs out.

"I think I'm missing the point of this," Erik said, leaning against the stone balcony and glancing at the dish. It was turned towards their direction, the same way Erik left it, when Moira called them that day for the President's address. There had been a connection—a far cry from the one Charles made telepathically, one not made by linked minds but the subtle way their eyes seemed unable to unlock themselves from each other.

"What's going to happen with you?" Sean asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You were pretty clear where you stood on that beach. You said you're going to oppose those who aren't like us."

"I did," Erik said, detachedly. "And I don't go back on my word."

"But you know Charles," Sean replied. "He wouldn't let you do anything that would jeopardize us even further. Our safety matters more to him than anything else."

"He wouldn't be able to do anything because of this," Erik said, tapping a finger against his helmet.

"Well, he could try and knock you down, but he can't even do that, can he? He's stuck in a fucking wheelchair, because of you," Alex snapped, fuming as he drew near. Sean held his hand out to stop him, his expression alarmed.

Erik's expression darkened to a storm, and Sean felt the metal in their persons vibrate.

"He didn't mean that," Sean said hastily. "We believe the professor. No one's at fault."

Erik's expression dulled to a more subdued state, one that the two of them haven't seen on him before. It was too open an expression that Sean and Alex weren't used to. He thrummed with power, but he was staring at the satellite dish now, willing his focus to stay.

He was reminded once again of the semi-permanent melancholy his friend had as an expression these days. He would often catch a glimpse of Charles glancing awkwardly at his wheelchair and shrugging, as if it didn't mean as much to him. But Erik knew. Charles had shed tears, and Erik had wanted to shed blood.

"But you have to understand—we're all we've got right now. My parents—"Sean started, his faced flushed, already reeling back from continuing, but pushing past his anxiety anyway, "—they sent me a letter, hearing about what happened and, I—"

Erik gaze pierced through Sean. Sean was hesitating, and he had never before seen the other mutant so unsure of himself.

"They want nothing to do with me," Sean finished, breathing deeply. "I've got nowhere to go. And Alex won't even think about going back to prison. The others just look too out-of-place appearance-wise—Raven could manage, it's her ability, but she's proud of her blue skin now, and Hank—Hank's devastated."

Erik's eyes shifted to Alex, who seemed to be struggling to find the right words to say—both to Erik, whom he still seemed pissed about, and Sean, whom he hadn't known prior to the confrontation was experiencing such emotional stress.

Alex, for his part, forced himself to keep silent. He was right. Even he couldn't bear looking at Hank without feeling an unusually large amount of pity for him. Alex could drive to New York whenever he wanted—pick up some groceries, buy a book—but not Hank. Hank was cooped up in the mansion, only left alone because he was too awkward with the others.

It was like something finally broke in Erik. It was odd—he didn't strike himself as a person who could, or will ever get attached, but the way the two teens looked at him akin to that of a children to a parent, he couldn't stop the surge of inexplicable pride and protectiveness.

Sean—he saw himself in Sean sometimes, back before they were relocated to the ghettos. He was a reminder of what he used to be—carefree and humorous, but on top of that tactful and level-headed for a teenager, and to hear him say his parents didn't want him ... Erik had the luxury of his family's love before it was taken away from him by the Nazis—his mother even encouraged his power in Shaw's office that fateful day, not because she didn't want to die, but because she wanted to see her Erik safe and able to protect himself.

"Sean," Erik only said, and before any of them could comprehend it, the redhead was in Erik's embrace.

**v**

**Note: So we got a little Father!Erik and Children!SeanHankAlex going on! But wait … does that mean Charles is their mother?**

_**Charles: Why, that's preposterous! I beg to differ, my friend, I am not at all maternal!**_

_**Me: But you weren't adverse to the idea of you and Erik being mawwied, weren't cha?**_

_**Charles: Well … *blush***_


End file.
